


Little Old Me

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Height Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor is much taller than she is, and Clara is rather fond of this fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Old Me

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to eleventy-kink.livejournal.com at: http://eleventy-kink.livejournal.com/942.html?thread=3935406t3935406
> 
> Set immediately after Nightmare in Silver.

“Did Porridge and I make you jealous?” Clara teases once her charges are safe in bed.

“It did occur to me that you might fancy someone your own height,” he jibes back, and is rewarded with a swat on the arm.

“I'll have you know I kind of like having you so tall,” Clara admits, surprising herself with her honesty. She looks back upstairs to the children's bedrooms. “Maybe it's taking care of Angie and Artie all the time—it's certainly not me being old-fashioned—but I rather like having someone tall and strong who can protect me for a change, sometimes.” 

He says nothing, only drawing her into a quiet kiss; Artie is a light sleeper. They dash away to the TARDIS, hand-in-hand, because running is faster than what he has planned next. “My beautiful little Clara,” he laughs as he sweeps her up into his arms, carrying her to the nearest bedroom. “My impossible girl.” He spins about before sitting down in the center of a loveseat; she giggles and kisses him. 

“My wonderful Doctor,” she replies as he presses a kiss to the top of her head. They laugh and hold each other close.

“May I undress you?” 

“I should like nothing better.” 

He starts by unlacing her simple black shoes and tossing them off; she wriggles her toes, still in her black tights. His right hand strays up to unzip her leather jacket while his left strokes her hair. “I think you'll find this outfit is surprisingly user-friendly,” she says with a laugh, and he is pleased to discover she is not lying. Underneath the jacket is a black and red floral-print dress with another zipper running from the collar to the hem of the skirt, and he tugs this one all the way down as well. 

“What, no quantum buttons? No interstellar petticoats? No neutrino corsetry?” he teases.

“Please tell me you're making those things up,” she groans as he fiddles with the clasp on her bra. “You're having enough trouble with a simple front-closure bra.” He rolls his eyes just before it pops open, and he smirks. “At least you didn't have to get out the sonic screwdriver.”

“I suppose I could,” he replies as she wriggles out of jacket and dress and bra; he takes advantage of her raised hips to slide his hands in and remove her tights and panties. “Sonic pulses, vibration, hot and cold, electricity...” She goggles at him in disbelief; he decides to put off showing her that he wasn't kidding until a later date. “But I think for right now, I'll just use my hands.”

And use them he does, Clara thinks. Her toes curl and she curls with them in his lap, fitting there rather neatly, she supposes. All of that manic dexterity that goes into flying the TARDIS is now directed on her, and she is the one being flown to new heights, being played with like a child's bauble. His wingspan is immense, she realizes; it must be to hold the weight of the universe, some poetical part of her brain adds, and suddenly she feels even smaller. Even stretched out as far as she can go, he can and does touch every bit of her, discovering erogenous zones she'd never dreamed of by mistake. She is going to come, she realizes, and his hands haven't been focusing on the usual places at all. Just as she thinks this, one palm grazes her mons as the other hand pinches her earlobe, and she is a shivering mess in his lap. 

She grabs him by the lapels and pulls him into a deep kiss. His lapels; how is he still dressed? Buttons, buttons, everything is buttons. Jacket, waistcoat, shirt, braces; even his fly buttons. Slowly, methodically, her fingers work up and down his long torso undoing row after row of buttons, drawing nearer to the feel of warm, muscular flesh. She grins as his clothes pile next to hers on the floor, and at last, he too is naked. 

“What,” and she can tell the word sticks in his throat, just a lick, “did you have in mind?”

“I thought you might come on me,” she begins, “and then we might take a shower,” and she kneels on the floor. “And then we might do some other things in there, if you're still...game,” she finishes. 

“I think we can manage that.” He stands facing her, standing sentinel, cock in his hand. He is dizzyingly tall, she realizes, an opal obelisk to a lonely god in the moonlight (TARDIS-light?), and leans back on her heels to offer him an even better view. She, of course, feels even shorter like that, and a bit of a thrill flows through her. He looks more like the stereotypical protector out of the suit, she muses. All that running must be good for the physique. His spare arm reaches down and grips her shoulder to steady himself as he spurts over her breasts and thighs with a groan. 

***

“Well, I'm certainly dirty now,” she remarks, and leads him to the en suite. 

“You're always filthy,” he rejoins, tagging after her. 

There is a glass stall there with several shower heads above and soon they are both wet and well-soaped. Clara rather likes the stall; it contributes to the sense of being trapped, which meshes nicely with what she has in mind. The tiles on the floor are rough to prevent falls, and she turns to face away from him, up on the balls of her feet, hands braced on the shower wall, and she turns her head over her shoulder. “Well?” she asks, and before she can finish he has cut her off with a kiss. 

Seconds after that, he is inside her. Yes, she thinks, this is what she craves just now. To be pressed against cold tile but to be so filled and so covered by him. Even his fingers are longer than hers, she discovers as they twine with her own, though she is not surprised. 

She is surprised when he slides out of her, spins her around, and hoists her back up and onto his cock. “Oh!” she starts, and clings to him like she is drowning. 

He supports her, seemingly without effort, and comes inside of her. “Thank you,” she manages, still holding fast to him.

“It has been my pleasure,” he replies, ever gallant, and tucks a kiss onto the side of her neck. They stand like that for a moment, she in his arms, the spray of the water above and the thrum of the TARDIS below, in perfect equilibrium.

**Author's Note:**

> I may have looked up Clara's outfit from Nightmare in Silver and used that as the basis for her outfit.


End file.
